


Veil and Bone

by Rainbowrunner01



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: ...maybe smut, And Reader is oblivious, Attempt at Humor, Because Sans is in denial, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Character Development, F/F, F/M, Family, Magic, Monster Kind is a secret, Reader Inner monologues, Reader Is Not Frisk, Reader is a Deadpan Snarker, Reader really can't catch a break, Sans is kinda maybe a stalker, Slow Burn, Snark, Some gritty descriptions, Some people can't take a hint, Sooo much Snark, Will be fluffiness, or at least identifies as such, reader is female, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-09-30 14:20:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10164827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbowrunner01/pseuds/Rainbowrunner01
Summary: 'Do not draw attention to yourself. Do not acknowledge them in any way. Let them think you are ignorant, for if they know that you can see…they will come for you.’You liked to think you were rather average—average looks, a mediocre job in fastfood, averagely unfit—and you were fine with that, because it was stable and safe, an escape from the Sight that plagued you. You had everything planned out—that is until that asshat of a skeleton makes it his life mission to see your plans go up in flames. One bad pun at a time. Because apparently normalcy attracts all manner of strange things.In which sometimes you don't choose your family, it chooses you...even if you run from it, it will drag you back kicking and screaming and lovingly feed you bowls of spaghetti . . . denial really isn't just a river in Egypt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What is this.  
> This is my half-hearted attempt at a Sans/Reader fic...because I'm pathetic and Sans is fun to write.  
> Really I have no idea where this is going. Monster Kind was not sealed away, but instead chose to hide away from humans behind something know as the 'Veil'.
> 
> Make of that what you will... :)

 

_The fog that dances, twirls and plays_

_Hides a secret in its ways_

 

You watched as the raindrops slowly trailed down the surface of the partially fogged glass—fogged not by water vapor, but an excessive amount of dirt and crude graffiti scratched into the screen by sharp objects.

The streets—partially clear through the clouded glass—outside the storefront, were mostly empty. The store as well was all but deserted. Nary a soul could be seen—and nor would they—as no-one in their right mind would be caught dead at eleven forty pm on a Monday night, out in the cold and pouring rain. Most sensible people would be at home snuggled up in bed. Save for the obnoxious ticking of the clock, patter of rain on the window and the idle sizzling of the oil cooker, the restaurant was silent.

Leaning against the countertop, you began to pick your teeth with a slightly jagged bitten thumbnail, other hand absentmindedly trying to fix the flyaway strands of frizzy dirty blond hair back into your cap—with very little success of course.

Dull greyish blue eyes flickered to the obnoxious analog clock that sat on the far wall for perhaps the ninth time in the last five minutes. The second hand seemed to be mocking you, ticking away so very slowly. The minute hand was even worse; it seemed to be frozen in place, refusing to even budge—at one point you had been sorely tempted to check if the hand was literally stuck to the clock face—the digital clock on the cash register was only a more painful torture.

“Twenty more minutes, just twenty more _frigging_ minutes and then you can go home.” Your little prep talk barely even disturbed the silence.

It really did nothing to lessen your boredom.

Sighing, you leaned further into the counter, beginning to chew on one of your fingernails—a bad habit you hadn’t quite gotten rid of since your early days of school.

Why were you here again? Oh, that was right, you had to have money to live! Closing shift on a Monday night was the quietest all week, no noisy or pushy customers, no screaming children, no bossy shift manager, limited staff…basically sloth heaven, while you still got paid. Except the downside of such a shift was the glaring boredom and long hours.

Grey eyes narrowed as you caught the reflection of your face in the polished metal of the soda dispenser—or more specifically the glaring red pimple on your chin that hadn’t been there two hours ago.

Eyes narrowed in irritation.

“Ah, damn.” Your skin always became oily after you ate greasy food; breakouts were a regular occurrence with you. You’d think at twenty years old you wouldn’t have the problems that teenagers had.

Glaring at the spot, you raised your fingers to your chin—

“ _Ah uh!_ Don’t you _dare_ , get your fingers _away_ from the zit!”

You froze, scowling.

How the hell did he do that?! It didn’t matter whether you were in the bathrooms or behind the fridge or even in the cool room, he always managed to find you when you were trying do something he considered ‘unladylike’. Shoes clacked against tiles as your co-worker—and only other person on shift—sashayed from the back, his hips swinging. Jacob—or rather Jackie as he preferred—was around average height with a mop of dark carefully styled hair, his eyes were a rich chocolate brown, lined with a smoky eyeliner. He was rather pretty yet still had a masculine appeal about him. More than one giggling schoolgirl had been on the end of an unreciprocated crush, unreprocriated as Jackie was very definitely gay, and had no problems broadcasting his preference—you had stumbled upon him and the shift manager on numerous occasions having what one might call a ‘heated make-out session’ in the cooling room. Jackie seemed to have made it his life goal to get you to be more ladylike. He’d been trying for six months and as far as you could tell, would be still trying for a long time.

Shooting him a dry look you turned your attentions back to the soda dispenser, and the glaring red zit. You raised your hands and prodded the spot with an index finger, wincing as it throbbed. Damn you were definitely going to have to pick it; no amount of squeezing would fix that kind of monstrosity.

“It’s my face Jackie, I can do whatever I want with it.” You said sardonically.

You cringed as you dug your jagged thumbnail into the head of the pimple, ignoring the pain as you scooped the puss and dead skin cells from the blocked pore. The man from beside you shivered in disgust as you wiped the puss onto your uniform top. Immediately you returned to staring torpidly out the graffiti and—somewhat questionably—stained window. With a groan as you looked at the clock, you realized it had barely been three minutes since you last checked.

“You should care more about your appearance, you’ll never get a partner with that attitude.” Jackie scolded; his expression became dreamy as he continued, “Who knows, once you clean up you might even catch the attentions of Mettaton himself.” He swooned, fanning himself with a hand—a reaction you had seen too many girls repeat at even a mention of that specific name. You didn’t even twitch, your expression remaining impassive and unimpressed by his words. It wasn’t surprising really seeing as anyone that chose a stage name that sounded like something off a _Transformers_ knockoff and wore more pink and glitter than your three year old cousin, well to say the least you were particularly underwhelmed by the idol’s ‘glamorous’ visage.

Heh, it seemed you were underwhelmed by just about everything these days.

Jackie only regarded you with an exasperated sigh in response to your bland expression, flicking his fringe from his eyes.

“I’m just trying to be helpful,” He muttered, adding. “I’ll go take stock before we close, you man the register.” He walks into the back without a rearward glance.

“…Not like I haven’t been doing that or anything.” You mutter to no one, your voice echoing dully throughout the restaurant.

Again, the sizzling of the oil-cooker and the obnoxious ticking of the clock was all that accompanied you in this ghost town of a fast food restaurant. You began to tap your fingernail against the counter, drumming a tune in an attempt to distract yourself from glancing at the time. A watched pot never boils they say—or in this case—a watched clock doesn’t tick.

Your idle musings are cut short when the door to the restaurant swings open on rusty hinges, an agonizing—and somewhat pitiful—screech sounding.

You wince.

_Note to self: tell the boss to get that fixed._

You lethargically draw yourself up, in a half-hearted attempt at composure, grey eyes flickering to the customer that walks through the door.

You really can’t help but wonder who the hell buys fast-food at 11—you glace at the time— :49 pm on a Monday night.

Normally you wouldn’t take much stock of the customers that come through on shifts such as these, but your glaring boredom won’t allow you to pass up the opportunity for some cognitive stimuli.

He’s short…for a guy at least, slightly below average in height, but that might be because of his prominent slouch. His gait is leisurely, each step unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world—then again maybe he does. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his thick blue parka, which sports a fluffy white hood and is left undone to reveal a plain white t-shirt underneath. The sports shorts—basketball maybe? —hang loosely from his hips, covering just below his knees. With a flick of irritation you notice he has tracked in water from the rain outside leaving muddy footprint from his . . .pink slippers. Welp, you’ve officially found something worse than socks with sandals. It’s his features that really make you do a double take though.

White.

Everything’s so _white_.

His skin is white, not Caucasian white but _white,_ as if he hasn’t seen a lick of sunlight since the day he was born—that or trying to do some sort of impression of a vampire. His hair was also white, so white he must of have gone through bottles of hair bleach just to achieve the effect or was _old_. There was the slightest amount of stubble on his chin, and his features were set in to a lazy grin, eyes half-mast and droopy. You couldn’t make out the colour of his eyes. Discerning his age was also rather difficult as you could place him anywhere from his mid to early twenties. In fact the guy kind of reminded you somewhat of that Jack Frost character off of the movie about the living personifications of holidays and traditions.

So definitely not the normal customers that came at this time but, well you’d certainly seen stranger than an albino wearing pink slippers.

With a practiced ease you slipped into ‘employee mode’—your default that came about after dealing with customers for years.

“Welcome to Bob’n’Betty’s BurgersTM. How may I serve you?” You drawled, without the slightest bit of enthusiasm or inflection present in your voice. In fact you could probably put history teachers to shame with how soporific you sounded. The ennui practically rolled off you in waves—a testament to how much you really wanted to go home and sleep.

“whoa, no need to get overly excited there kid.” He said sarcastically, his voice a surprisingly deep baritone.

The air shimmered, a barely noticeable iridescent sheen. You ignored it…as always.

When you didn’t respond, he shrugged.

“i’d like some ketchup,” He continued.

The air shimmered again, but more noticeably. Your eyes narrowed slightly…why was the Fog—something wasn’t right. His lips…they weren’t ‘synching’ properly to his voice. Almost like some sort of bad voice over.

…what?

“on the go.”

You blinked, returning your attention back to the man.

Did he say ketchup?

“I…I’m sorry sir, but we don’t sell our condiments separately here.” Your voice faltered slightly, before returning to its monotonous drone.

What the hell, the Fog was incredibly thick all of a sudden, as if someone had put an opalescent shroud over the room. It wavered and shimmered, making you feel rather nauseous.

Your fingers gripped the underside of the counter.

Ignore it.

Ignore it.

“heh, i guess i’ll just have the cheeseburger then, with the _condiment_ -ary fries.”

The joke completely went over your head as you were too busy trying to figure why the hell his voice and lip movements didn’t match.

“but i’ll have the burger sans the meat, sans the cheese and sans the bun.” He seemed to chuckle at something you were clearly not privy to. You looked at him blankly, his grin waning slightly.

You went to automatically punch in the order, but stopped when you finally realized what he actually wanted.

“ . . . Sir that would mean you would be served a dollop of ketchup in a wrapper with a side of fries, at the full price of a cheeseburger.” You said dispassionately.

He shrugged.

“what can I say, the fries and wrapper are lonely, they really wanna _ketchup_.” He put a heavy emphasis on the last word, as he eyed you expectantly.

You raised a single eyebrow, unimpressed at the horrible joke. So he was one of _those_ customers.

“I feel morally obligated to inform you that you will be paying much more than what is present for your meal, and that if you are in desperate need of ketchup you can purchase it for a fraction of the price at the grocery store. But seeing as it is not my place to decide how and when you wish to waste your money…that’ll be 7.59.” You deadpanned.

He looked rather put off by your lack of humour. You heard him mutter something that sounded like ‘tough crowd’ as he rummaged through his pockets for what you assumed to be his wallet. You narrowed your eyes at him while he wasn’t looking, scrutinizing his form. There was definitely something _off_ about him—other than his horrendous sense of humour—the Fog seemed to literally _wrap_ around his form, like some sort of hazy rainbow blanket. Was he an Other? You goddamn hoped not, you had a hard enough time dodging them on a regular basis as it was. But you could always see through the Fog that disguised Others, so maybe this was just some kind of anomaly? You squinted, trying to see _through_ the haze—and nearly banged your head on the register in surprise.

The fuck.

The actual _fuck._

Bones.

Through the translucent and flickering overlaid image of a human were bones. As if you were looking at an X-ray image of a human skeleton.

A fucking _skeleton_ wearing clothes.

You’d seen a lot of strange crap in your life—spend just as long avoiding it—from giant blue rabbits posing as ice-cream vendors to talking spiders, but an animated skeleton certainly took the cake, heck it took the whole cake _store_.

The Other finally drew the necessary cash from his pocket, holding up a skeletal hand towards you. His head—skull had turned to face you, eye sockets a deep fathomless black, only two pinpricks of white light floating within. The human illusion and the skeleton underneath kept flickering back and forth, both present at the same time, yet not. It was rather creepy to be honest, like something out of a horror movie.

You stared at him.

He stared at you.

You continued to stare at him.

He continued to stare at you.

His hand was still held awkwardly between you both, money ready to be taken.

The smile held in place by his toothy grin seemed to slip—how the hell bone moved you weren’t sure—as his brows—the human ones—furrowed.

“you right there kid?” He questioned.

No wonder it seemed his lips and voice didn’t match, his jaw and exposed teeth seemed to be literally fused together, completely unmoving. So how the hell was he talking—?

You blinked, realizing you had zoned out, _again_.

“My apologies…it’s been a rather long shift.” You offered, voice carefully regulated as you took the money from his presented limb, trying hard not to touch him. It seemed the skeleton was having none of it as he pushed his hand up at the same time so your limbs brushed against each other; you visibly shivered pulling your hand and the money away as quickly and subtly as you could manage. Although apparently not subtlety enough as the Other narrowed his eye sockets at you. Depositing the money in the register and telling him you would prepare his order, you quickly retreated to the back, slumping against a wall once you were out of his line of sight.

You’d seen Others before, passed them everyday on the street, watched as everyone else remained blissfully ignorant of their presence. But this one was the first you had ever not straight away recognized it for what it was. The first you had ever directly interacted with.

Your Grandmother’s warnings flashed through your head, the rules she had drilled into your skull since you were little.

_‘Do not draw attention to yourself. Do not acknowledge them in any way. Let them think you are ignorant, for if they know that you can see…they will come for you.’_

They will come for you.

That sentence had haunted you since childhood.

You sighed, walking over to the preparation area to ready his order. There was no reason to think the skeleton recognized you as any different from any other human, you would simply school your features as always, ignore, ignore, _ignore_ and carry on. After all you’d had nearly twenty years of practice. Today was no different.

You once again slipped into ‘employee mode’ as you brought the fries and ketchup in a wrapper out to the albino. Neither of you spoke as you handed the order across.

“wanna here a joke?” He said suddenly out of the blue.

You blinked, but looked at him impassively.

“you really look like you could use some humour right about now kid. knock, knock.” He continues.

A joke, _really_.

You remain silent, giving him your blandest look.

 _Go home_ , it practically screams.

He doesn’t falter as the silence stretches on, only keeping his harrowing gaze on yours.

The ticking of the clock is audible now as the silence stretches on, growing more uncomfortable by the second.

Your eyes flicker to the time, 00:03 am it reads. Three minutes passed the end of your shift.

He was still standing there staring at you.

You grew more uncomfortable.

Dammit. This guy was actually serious? Stupid—

“ . . . . . Who’s there?” You grumble finally, reluctantly giving in.

His grin is back full force

“i’m skelly.”

With the flattest and most apathetic voice you can muster you drawl, “I’m Skelly who?” which turns out more like a hiss.

His grin grows to shit-eating proportions.

“I’m skele-t _on to you.”_ His voice gains a dark undertone to it.

You don’t laugh, no you feel closer to puking as your face loses colour.

Shit. Shit, shit, _shitshitshit_. He knows.

The skeleton meanders towards the door, but not before throwing one last remark.

“oh and kid? your chin’s bleeding.” He walks out into the rain, door swinging shut behind him.

You stare at the spot he was in last.

Did he just—?!

Your eye twitches.

T-that _asshole_!

Goddammit, you really needed to go to bed.

And still the clock obnoxiously ticks away into the depressing silence of the restaurant.


	2. It was Murphy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You never see the skeleton’s orbs gain a spark of curiosity. Looking at you with the eyes of a child that wants to pick apart the butterfly to see how it ticks. Like a puzzle, a novelty.

_Murphy’s Law_

_In which states: “Anything that can go wrong, can and will go wrong.”_

Socks.

They were spread across the small room, scattered across the old carpeted floor, some lying in piles, others seemingly strewn at random. Some lay haphazardly on the single unmade bed—many falling within the crevices of the rumpled duvet or falling under the bed completely—others still hanging unnaturally off of the desk lamp or caught between the personal items stacked on the plain desk. The drawers in the cheap white chest of draws were pulled open, the top two being completely pulled off the sliders and resting at the base of them. A single sock flew through the air, thrown on an unintentional trajectory for the headboard of the bed.

The socks were each a multitude of different colours—reds, scarlet and crimson. Blues, navy, cerulean and cyan. Golds and yellows, oranges and vermilions, emeralds and violets—nearly the full chromatic scale it seemed, each a different make or pattern; all of them scattered across the room like a disseminated bag of Skittles on the floor, like some sort of bohemian rainbow artwork. Each sock was completely individual from another no two were alike, not a single sock—

“Arrrhhgg! How can there not be a single matching sock within this entire fucking room?!” The enraged cry rang out through the small bedroom, carrying with it a sense of irritation and urgency.

Your left hand rummaged through the currently designated ‘sock draw’ frantically, fingers sliding along the base up along the back and to each corner for good measure. Your grey eyes narrowed at the draw, glancing into its empty contents again to make sure you hadn’t missed anything.

You hadn’t.

You had searched through every draw—behind them even—through your small closet, along every shelf, in every single place you could think of…but no there was not a single matching pair.

You sighed, slumping against the closest wall, massaging your scalp through the tangled frizzy mess that was your hair. You glared rather sourly at the offending articles of clothing that littered your bedroom floor, as if they were the cause of all your worldly troubles.

How the hell wasn’t there a single matching pair—there must have been dozens scattered about—in the entirety of your clothing? Were they really that hard to find? Had someone decided one day that they wanted only the left sock of each pair? Had you been cursed to only have one of each? Was there a literal gremlin like from folk law that was doing away with yours socks—and your sanity?!

No.

Probably not. However unlikely, the probability of such things happening wasn’t _that_ small. You highly doubted someone was maliciously stealing all your matching socks just to watch you squirm.

But—your gaze flickered around the room—why did you have so many in the first place? It’s not like you went out of your way to start a collection. Ahh, that was right, Christmas presents. It had been a running gag since you were about ten that your Aunt would buy you socks—the more garish and ostentatious the better—for Christmas…and your birthday. You never had the heart to throw them out—Ok so maybe you did, but there was so many.

“Screw this.” You muttered, standing up and swiping the closest relatively—you meant the term rather loosely—matching socks nearest to you, slipping them on your feet and not caring if one happened to be inside out. You started chucking all the loose socks back into the draw before finally stuffing it back on its slider—the draw wouldn’t shut properly as it was far too full of socks.

You trudged out of your small bedroom into the rest of the apartment—unfortunately still featuring all of the old fifties décor of when it had been built—walking passed the kitchen and combined living room to the small bathroom painted a hideous lemon yellow. The vanity with the mirror was off to the side as you entered; a bleary grey-eyed stare greeted you, accompanied by bags from your lack of sleep, freckles splattered prominently across your nose and cheeks. Your hair looked like a tangled ball of statically charged wool, the dirty blond strands so frizzy and tightly curled they seemed to hang like a fluffy mop. You attempted to pull them to the side halfheartedly, checking your chin and cheeks for the sneaky pimple you knew would be there—but was thankfully not. You grabbed the hairbrush hesitantly, watching your refection with resignation, mentally preparing yourself for what would come next. Licking your lips you pointed the hairbrush to the reflection of your hair threateningly.

“You’d better frigging cooperate with me, I’m not fucking about this morning.” You growled at it.

You breathed in and _yanked_ the brush through the curly strands, wincing as they literally stretched with the tension from the brush like a spring, you kept pulling and tugging—the knots had to give out eventually. Finally something gave—which wasn’t the hair but the neck of the brush itself, which gave a _SNAP_ as the tension released sending the head of the hairbrush flying into the wall behind you with a resounding crash.

You stared at your reflection for a total of ten seconds before your breath escaped in a hiss, eyelid twitching.

Really.

_Really?_

Maybe you _were_ cursed.

Eventually you settled to finger combing and pulling your hair back in its usual sloppy ponytail—which really looked more like a fuzzy pompom—that hung at neck length. You retreated from the bathroom, intent on grabbing something to eat from your kitchen—only to stub your toe on the corner of the coffee table.

You went down, _hard,_ swearing like a sailor, and clutching your toe through the material of your sock.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck _fuuuuuccccckkkk!!!!_

You lay there dazed as your toe _throbbed._

Actually you _were_ cursed.

You sluggishly rolled over, eyes watering as you righted yourself. Standing up you limped over to the kitchen, grumbling under your breath and yanking open the cupboard . . . to find literally nothing within it.

. . .

Someone was out to get you.

“No matching socks, broken brush and empty pantry…guess that means I have to go shopping.” You muttered, snagging your wallet from the bench and literally stomping to the front door. Before you opened it, hand on the handle; you stopped suddenly, a thought occurring to you.

Shopping meant going to the supermarket.

The supermarket was outside.

Outside as in outside your apartment.

Outside as in outside of your comfort zone and blessed control you fought so hard to keep.

Outside where _they_ roamed freely.

You weren’t agoraphobic by any means, but you liked your space, your little sanctuary in which you had control over, where you were comfortable to be yourself without constantly being on guard. Out there you had to wear a mask, constantly hide behind a façade, pretend, pretend, pretend, and ignore, ignore, ignore. It wore on you, the constant act, always trying to lay low, pretending to meander on like the rest of the ignorant humans, pretending you didn’t know, couldn’t _see_. Always an unremitting fear in the back of your mind that one day you would irreversibly slip, your cover would be blown and then…

_They will come for you._

The thought sent chills down your spine.

Your cover hadn’t been blown— _yet_ —but you had certainly come close.

A month, it had been a whole month since you had interacted with that Other, that stupid skeleton, a whole month of hiding within your apartment and snacking away on your food reserves—only leaving to rush to work and hightail it home—and now you couldn’t put off leaving any longer. And the _one_ day you need to go into public you catch a case of the misfortunes—you were nearly willing to bet that the skeleton had cursed you somehow.

Maybe this was why Grandma said to always avoid them.

But then you hadn’t survived the last twelve years of constantly dodging Others without picking up a few tricks here and there. You quickly turned from the door and briskly strode back to the kitchen—being carful of the throbbing toe—and opened a particular cupboard in the corner. A strong smell wafted from the cupboard as rows upon rows of dried herbs and spices greeted you, all neatly stacked in their containers or bundles. You hummed as you scanned across the assortment of herbs, looking for a particular one.

_‘Now listen well my grandchild, Others being malign in intention and nature are susceptible to certain wards and natural deterrents. Certain herbs and spices contain magical properties that ward against the evil of their presence, dissuading their devilry.’_

Aniseed, aniseed, aniseed, you mentally chanted, scanning for the herb, where for art thou?

‘ _Aniseed, deriving of the Anise plant, acts as a universal ward against the various categories of Others.’_

“Aniseed, the general all-purpose bug repellent of the Other world.” you recite, taking a pouch and placing a few of the seeds within and then rubbing the aniseed-extract on to your wrists and neck for good measure. You were probably going to smell like licorice for the next week. Your thoughts return to the skeleton, face turning down in contemplation, it couldn’t help to be extra careful considering you came into contact with it. You wracked your brain for a particular spice or herb that might be effective against skeletons.

‘ _Against the forces of the undead, in particular those that are vampyric in nature or a Lich, garlic is the most effective ward.’_

Undead. Did a skeleton even count as undead? You sure hoped so, because you weren’t looking forward to walking around public smelling like garlic.

You opened the jar of dried ground garlic and put a generous pinch in the pouch, it wouldn’t be enough for people to smell unless they literally came up and sniffed you, but if anyone asked you would say you were experimenting with garlic bread recipes. Pulling the drawstring tight, you slipped the small pouch around your neck, your stride far more confident with the ward in place.

You were ready to take Murphy and his stupid law head on now.

* * *

. . . . .

 

The elevator was broken and undergoing maintenance, and would be—as the printed note taped to the elevator door informed you—indefinitely.

You were on the fourth floor.

You stubbed your toe— _again_ —while descending the third flight of stairs down.

Upon reaching the entrance of the lobby and the exit of the building it began to rain.

Grey-blues eyes stared up rather unimpressed at the dark grey clouds that loomed above the urban environment, almost as if the glare alone could disperse the bad weather. You stood half way between the entrance and the slight undercover overhang of the building, waiting it out to see if the rain would let up slightly…it didn’t, probably wouldn’t as long as you were outside. After all you had been loitering here for over ten minutes now. The Fog was, you noted with trepidation, particularly thick today, hanging over the air in a shimmering haze, normally nigh undetectable unless in the direct presence of an Other. With it being this thick, it meant that there would be a lot of them gathered around this part of the city today—just your fucking luck—normally this was a rare occurrence as the Others generally tended to stick to their gated communities or the surrounding areas—humans vice versa instinctively seemed to avoid those dwellings—in fact that was the primary reason your apartment was located about as far away from these ‘hives’—you weren’t sure _what_ to call them—as one could get. You sigh as your stomach rumbles, time to brave the weather. You have multiple contingency plans for today, escape routes and hideaways; you know the routine, the ins and outs. You’ve been doing it your entire life. You scan the crowds meticulously, letting your features settle into a disinterested blank look, a numbness washing over you. As you step out into the flow of scurrying pedestrians, you slip in, becoming just another face in the crowd, another unremarkable human being going about their lackluster lives. There is perhaps a sense of comfort being in a crowd like this, being pulled along with the current of people, you don’t know them and they don’t know you, you’re simply just another face, another number.

A polar bear—almost anthropomorphic as it stands on two legs—towers over the pedestrians, it walks uninhibited by the flow of bodies, everyone seemingly avoiding it without any conscious reasoning, like magnets repelling each other. It had taken you a while to get the hang of following the crowd, allowing the Fog to guide your actions and thoughts, to not consciously look at the odd creatures or accidently brush against them. After all, they expected you to always give way to them, not the other way around.

Something small and blue, like a fuzzy pompom but with legs, scurried between the legs of people, heading in the same direction as the polar bear. You know well enough to subtly sidestep so as to avoid the critter, but the businessman in front of you isn’t quite so lucky as the Other clips passed him forcing the man off balance.

The iridescent haze of the Fog presses in on him, he shakes his head, eyes becoming unfocused.

“Stupid mutt. People need to control all these strays.” He muttered before righting himself and continuing on.

You felt sick, your pace quickening so as to get to the supermarket quicker.

The Fog, you noted, seemed to affect humans in one of two ways when it came to the perception of Others. Firstly—as was the majority of cases—the Others were simply put, unperceivable, it was more than just some form of invisibility, but as if people literally could not comprehend their existence, like some form of perception filter. If an Other were to cross the sights of a human, their gaze would simply skip over them, or unconsciously avoid their presence. In the rare case of an interaction, the person would simply…fill in the blanks. The second—and far rarer—were the perceivable Others, those that humans could interact with.

You shivered.

 _They_ were the ones you really needed to watch out for.

These were the Others that could hide in plain sight, able to take on _glamours—_ that’s what Grandma called them—illusions that hid their true forms, hid the malign decay underneath the guise of a human form and face.

Your feet were uncomfortable as the wet socks rubbed against your heels, your ratty sneakers making a squelching noise with each step. You were completely soaked, on edge, utterly miserable and your stomach wouldn’t stop rumbling. What a great day.

Your stomach gave another particularly loud whine at the smell of hotdogs that wafted passed your nose.

Feed me, it growled.

Shut up you responded. I can eat later, hotdogs are a waste of money, which I don’t have.

 _Feed me._ It continued to protest.

Your eyes flicker to the hotdog stand set up to your left, the sight of the dogs and the smell of grease made your mouth water.

No you must resist, your wallet depends on it.

The person tending to the stand seemed to be asleep—despite the weather—slumped over, face sheltered in the fur-lined hood of his blue parka. You saw a tuft of pure white hair peeking out from the front. His peaceful face suddenly seemed to frown, a single droopy eye cracking open as he seemed to sniff the air. His features immediately scrunched up in disgust, eyes nearly screwing shut as he brought up a hand to cover his nose.

“what the _hell_ is that smell?” He exclaimed, deep voice rumbling—a lazy halfhearted drawl—the sound sent shivers down your spine. His lips you notice don’t seem to match his voice just right.

“who the fuck puts licorice and garlic together?” He mumbles, voice still muffled by the hand over his nose.

The hairs rose on the back of your neck, as you realize that the guy can smell you from over ten feet away—a feat that should be impossible seeing as human nose is nowhere near sensitive enough to pick up on the aniseed and the pinch of garlic in your pouch.

The Fog shimmers.

And then he’s looking right _at_ you past all the crowds of people walking by.

And you’re looking at him— _through_ him. The image of an albino human flickers, peels away to reveal the white of bones and two pinpricks of white light floating within fathomless black pits.

It’s a skeleton… _the_ skeleton. The one from a month ago who asked for ketchup at midnight on a Monday. The one who implied that it knows you _know._

Fuck you Murphy.

His expression flickers from one of surprise then…something darker, recognition.

And you’re stuck, you can’t move. Even though your brain screamed at you to run, your legs refused to cooperate.

All you can do is stare.

The image of the human created by the Fog and the true form of the skeleton underneath flicker back and forth, its nauseating. You feel physically ill from the pressure of the Fog as it pushes down on you, squeezing, squeezing.

 _There is nothing out of the ordinary. Ignore, Ignore._ The Fog seems to intone. The fog was wrapped around you so thick it feels like you can hardly breath.

W-what the hell was this?! You’ve never felt the Fog act like this before, normally it ignored you.

No.

The skeleton’s harrowing gaze hasn’t left yours…almost as if he’s…

It hits you.

He—it’s the one doing this.

It’s somehow manipulating the Fog.

_You never saw anything. Ignore._

Its squeezing too hard.

_You never saw anything, go on your way. Ignore._

You can’t breath.

_You never saw anything. Ignore._

Panic bubbles up.

_Ignore._

You can’t _breath._

_Ignore._

S-stop it.

The skeleton’s gaze flickers in surprise.

_Ignore._

No.

_Ignore!_

No!

_Ignore!_

Stop!

_IGNORE!_

“STOP IT!” The scream ripped itself from your throat, echoing across the street full of people.

And suddenly the Fog’s influence was gone, the Other only looking at you with shock.

Fuck no.

All Grandma’s warnings ring through your head.

_'Do not draw attention to yourself. Do not acknowledge them in any way. Let them think you are ignorant, for if they know that you can see…they will come for you.’_

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.

You drew attention to yourself, you acknowledged it, and it knew you weren’t ignorant. You broke all the rules in a single go.

Fuck it all.

And now…now it would come for you.

All your childhood fears come crashing back in a single moment. Your scared, _terrified_. So you turn on your heel and run. Pushing through the crowds, not caring about who, _what_ you bump into to get away.

You never see the skeleton’s orbs gain a spark of _curiosity._ Looking at you with the eyes of a child that wants to pick apart the butterfly to see how it ticks. Like a puzzle, a novelty.

You keep running until you make it to your apartment building, bolting up four flights of stairs as if your not hopelessly unfit, fumbling with the key to your front door and nearly falling inside. By the time you stumble to your room and dive under the covers of your bed, you’re shaking like a leaf.

Nope.

Nope.

Nope.

Fuck the skeleton.

Fuck Murphy.

Fuck your stupid Sight.

Fuck everything.  
…You’re never leaving this room again—

Your stomach growls.

—not for a while at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Reader, things are not always as they seem~  
> I am aware that the Reader's perception of Monsters may seem a little skewed, but do take into account that they have no real understanding of what's really going on. This will become more apparent as the story goes on.
> 
> In the case of garlic and aniseed, I'm not actually sure as to their real-world significance, so I'm just making it up as I go. 
> 
> Thanks for reading :)

**Author's Note:**

> And that is only the beginning of your run ins with Sans my dear Reader~  
> I also can't come up with jokes to save my life...but I suppose that fits with Sans' character and all.


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